


The hurt locker affair

by Hypatia_66



Series: Early days [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Community: section7mfu, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Survival Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 01:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12158736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Illya has told Napoleon that a bomb was left in his locker at Survival School, but which is more destructive, a bomb or a word? It’s not a good start.





	The hurt locker affair

“How did you come to discover this bomb?” asked Napoleon, having persuaded the reluctant Russian to talk about what he had found in his Survival School locker.

“Ordinarily I might not have even considered the possibility, but that day there was a tension in the atmosphere,” Illya replied.

“What kind of tension?”

“Well, not an unusual tension – not really. Just... it was the last week of the course. We were competing for a final time, combating a surprise attack. Everyone was on edge, wanting to win.”

“It would have been better if we’d practised protecting each other.”

“I agree. It was meant to start with one assailant, firing from anywhere, then more challenges as you went through – you must remember.”

“Yes.”

“Well then. That’s how it was for all the others. But when I moved into the first area, there were two shots fired almost simultaneously – so close you could hardly tell.”

“But you weren’t hit.”

“No. When I walked into the scene I immediately dropped to the ground. The shots crossed over my head.”

“Did anyone else notice? What happened?”

“Nothing happened. They thought I was imagining things.”

********

He had got through that exercise, and not only survived but did better than all the others in anticipating and avoiding danger. As ever, success won him few friends in that testosterone-fuelled place, but they were all about to leave, so it mattered less than usual. At least, that’s what he assumed.

The locker room was empty when he went to shower and change. As he approached the wall of lockers, he observed a very slight deviation in the line and stopped, on the alert. Where was everyone? Why had they _all_ apparently chosen to go to their quarters to change?

The floor was clear. Nothing that would detonate when stepped on. He moved forward, carefully checking every detail of each locker. His own, number 11, stood the tiniest fraction of an inch out of line.

Sweating a little, he examined it, as close as he dared. There was something – nothing obvious, just a feeling of wrongness. There was nothing he could do without tools. Slowly he backed away, and left the room.

Cutter himself was passing as he emerged. Seeing Kuryakin still in his competition kit, and therefore still unwashed, he snapped out a sarcastic reproof.

“Sir, this room must be secured. I think there’s an explosive device concealed in there,” said Illya.

“You’re paranoid, Kuryakin. How could there be?”

“No sir, I’m not. I don’t know _how_ there could be, but I believe there _is_ and I just don’t want anything to happen to anyone who goes in there.”

“You didn’t leave it there yourself?” said Cutter, suspiciously.

“Of course not. I think it’s been left in my locker.” His face was pale and a little clammy. Cutter stared at him for a moment, and abruptly turned and pulled out his keys.

“All right. I’ll lock it. Now go and clean up and get back here with something to defuse it with.”

**************

“Phew,” said Napoleon. “He wanted _you_ to deal with it?”

“Yes. He believed I’d left it.”

“So, what did you do?”

“Oh, I took the appropriate equipment, and dealt with it.”

“What sort of equipment?”

He smiled, and Napoleon thought again about getting him that little black book (or rather, a dark blue one with a red heart). There was going to be some explosive competition for his attentions – and he’d quite like to see how this strange partner of his was going to defuse it.

“Oh – you know, the usual things.”

No, Napoleon didn’t know, or at least he’d forgotten. His talents had never lain in that direction – it was another reason to be glad of this partner.

“OK. So, where was it left – and who left it?”

“It was in the hinge, and would have blown my hands off if I’d opened it in the normal way.” Killed him, more like. Napoleon watched his face, amazed at his detachment. “There was an investigation – but of course everyone on the island was a suspect, including me, so it was hampered from the start.”

Napoleon threw up his hands. “And it was left like that? What about the two shots?”

“Nobody believed in the two shots. Cutter must have believed what I said about the bomb though, because of asking me to stay on to teach the new class. The others all left the island… Nothing else happened while I was there.”

“Was it reported to Waverly?”

“I believe so.”

Napoleon stood up and went to the door. “Wait here. Read the Guidelines for the New Agent, or something. I’ll be back.”

Illya reached for a more interesting read, a journal on particle physics.

****************

“Of course I know about it, Mr Solo, calm yourself,” said Waverly.

“Have we got any other agents from that class in HQ?”

“There are three. And before you ask, yes, they have been thoroughly vetted.”

“Psychological profiling? Sir.”

“Of course.”

“Is this going to be investigated further?”

“It has been, and nothing has been found. It seems to have been a prank carried too far by someone lacking Mr Kuryakin’s superior skill. Now, please, Mr Solo, get on with your work, and let me get on with mine.”

Napoleon was too junior to dare ask who the other three were; instead he went to Section 6 and asked there.

Illya was the only one of the four who had been put immediately into Section 2, without having to achieve further recognition of his suitability. The other three junior agents were in, variously, Research, Security, and Enforcement and Intelligence.

He returned to his now-shared office, a little preoccupied. Illya was reading – he’d found a newly established journal, Nuclear Physics, and was engrossed.

Napoleon tipped it to see what it was and pulled a face – though possibly not as grim as the one Illya pulled, at the intrusion.

“I’ve been doing some research,” he announced, and sat down. The response of his partner was not encouraging, but he continued. “Three of your Survival School playmates are working here.”

“Yes, I know. I checked.”

“You didn’t say.”

“You didn’t ask.”

 “And?” he inquired, impressed despite a certain irritation, by the man’s ability to anticipate trouble.

“And nothing. I knew them all by sight, but had very little to do with any of them.”

 “You were already going to be appointed to a coveted position. That might be a reason to be jealous of you.”

“I’m older and better qualified. Why should that bother anyone?”

“You’re a Soviet. We’re enemies.”

Illya looked at him expressionlessly, but Napoleon cursed himself. They were at a delicate stage of this new relationship. This wasn’t someone to be careless around. A cruel remark was as destructive in its own way as any bomb, and, through his own folly, he found himself watching in Illya’s eyes the withdrawal of tentative trust, the shrivelling of hope. The cat that walked by itself did so, it seemed, because its world was empty and desolate. He, Napoleon, had spoken from the complacent comfort of his own richly-populated place in this world. He now saw Illya as an isolated figure, the unwilling representative of a hated enemy. And in the resigned set of his shoulders, it was clear he was used to the loneliness of that position.

“Ah, hell, Illya. I didn’t mean that we… that you and I…” he was just making things worse. “I’m sorry,” he ended, lamely.

“Why? It’s true.”

“No. It’s not. Only our countries. You and I – we’ll be partners – I think we could be friends. Never enemies.”

Cool blue eyes stared at him from under frowning brows. Napoleon held his breath. There was conflict behind the broad brow.

“Do you think you are so different from others here?” Illya said, at last.

Napoleon was silent; that was a very difficult question – it needed a truthful, not a cosy sentimental answer.

“I want to be different – put it that way.” Napoleon watched his partner’s face as he spoke. “I already feel a kind of rapport with you. You have skills I have huge respect for, and lack myself. You may find I have other skills, that you lack. We’ll complement each other, and work as a team. And –” he paused for emphasis, “I’ve known you a matter of hours, but I already know it’ll work.”

“I thought that, too…” but it was said on a falling, hopeless, cadence.

“I don’t think it. I know it,” Napoleon insisted. “But proving yourself to others will be harder, to start with, because of what you represent.”

“It was thought I would represent an entente, after a difficult period between our countries.”

“You do. It just might take time for that to sink in.”

“It seems I shall always be an object of suspicion.”

“No need to be a pessimist. We’ll work it through together, and prove them wrong. And tomorrow, _partner mine_ , I’ll do some investigating of this problem.”

Illya sat back. “Is it worth making it look bigger than it was? It was probably no more than a stupid attempt to frighten me.”

“Yes, it _is_ worth it – life is dangerous enough for people like us. We don’t want it coming from our own side.”

Napoleon looked seriously across at his friendless young partner. He felt rather limp. This last hour had been as arduous as any physical exertion and he needed a drink at least.

“Let’s go out. Let me take you out for dinner.”

Illya spoke a little doubtfully. “If you wish … thank you. I think I’d like that,” and he added, smiling slightly, “You may regret it – I get quite hungry.”

******************

The three Survival School recruits were naturally reluctant to say anything at all about the incident. They all knew about it; they had all taken part in the final test.

Napoleon gathered them for interview and talked to each of them separately. “You didn’t go into the locker room to shower and change – why not?” he asked them.

They all said the same thing; that a rumour had gone round that the locker room was rigged to shower them all with something disgusting, after the competition. No-one knew exactly what, but harmless pranks weren’t that uncommon, so they had kept away.

Of course, they had all been through this interrogation before. It was likely that their stories had been shared and agreed already.

“How was it that Illya didn’t know about this rumour?”

They had no idea. Surprise. Of course they hadn’t.

“Was Illya kept out of extra-curricular activities?”

They didn’t think he wanted to take part.

“Why not?”

He kept himself to himself. He was always studying.

“Who was he friendly with?”

No-one much. Of course – no-one – he was the cat that walked by itself. Perforce? Or by choice?

They were sure it had been a stupid prank that had gone too far, and became distressed when he pressed them on the fact that it had been a viable bomb that could have maimed or even killed Illya.

The one in Security said, “He was Russian. It didn’t seem to matter,” and was lucky not to be maimed himself by his interlocutor, who snapped, “Not quite human, eh?” which produced a flush of embarrassment, but not necessarily shame.

And maybe that was all it was, a careless disregard for the life of a shy, self-effacing representative of the enemy. All? Wasn’t that enough? – a prank gone wrong, that didn’t matter because he was only a Russian?

A partner was there to watch your back as well as complement your skills. Napoleon hadn’t needed to think about it much before – it was a given. Now it might be a permanent responsibility whether on a mission or in the safety of headquarters. Well, if that’s what it took, he was willing.

He would regain this partner’s trust, and restore his hope – he must. Perhaps he would start by going out and getting that little dark-blue book with a red heart. And if there were only black ones to be had, he’d make a cover for the damned thing himself.

*****************

He never got the chance. Mr Waverly called them both to his office the following day.

“I have had a request from the Berlin Office for Mr Kuryakin’s services,” he said. “I was initially reluctant to send him back to Europe when he has been here for so short a time, but in view of your recent activities, Mr Solo, I have changed my mind.”

Napoleon was startled. “My activities, sir?”

“Stirring up an ants nest isn’t the best way to resolve complex questions in an international organisation, Mr Solo. At this time, Mr Kuryakin’s talents may be better employed in Europe. He is uniquely qualified as a fluent speaker of Russian and German, and could be very useful at this very tense time in Berlin.”

Napoleon felt an unusual dismay; he wasn’t sure why, but his world would feel oddly depopulated when this singular individual had gone.

Waverly looked at Illya, who had remained silent and apparently unmoved. “You will leave for Berlin in the morning, Mr Kuryakin.”

“Is this a permanent posting?” was his only question.

“Not necessarily. We need your services here too, for the same, and other, reasons. And, of course, London might be interested in your talents too. But if Berlin lets you go, and you feel you would like to return to New York, I shall be delighted to have you back.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The smile and shrug directed at Napoleon were at least forgiving.

====================================


End file.
